DRAINED

I was standing in the middle of a field, the air heavy with morning dew. My hands felt warm and sticky, and I raised them to my face, looking at them matter-of-factly as though I were browsing shelves in a liquor store. “Only blood looks just that way,” I thought. Of course I must be dreaming. I was in no pain, therefore the blood was not mine. The sky was just beginning to lighten and it was absolutely still except for the irregular tip-tip-tap-spat-drip of blood splattering the toes of my battered Docs. I watched it falling slowly in great gobs from my hands as it continued to flow from an unidentified source, as though from a fresh wound. But again, I was in no pain and felt no fear. I didn’t recognize the clothes I was wearing. Maybe I’m not me. The light grew brighter still, amplified by the fog and I looked about, noting there were no tracks leading to me. I had made the only marks on this field this morning, whatever morning it was, whatever field it was. I became aware of a sound, like a hiss. Or maybe it was a whisper, hovering on the edge of words. My legs itched, and when I looked down, the grass had grown almost a foot. It was no longer wet with dew, and it nearly covered my boots. The whispering had stopped. I wanted to leave, but my legs did not work. "I must be dreaming." I closed my eyes and fought as hard as I could, willing each limb into remembering the time-honored art of locomotion, but to no avail. And the whispering was back. I opened my eyes, and while the rest of the field was unchanged, the grass beneath me was up to my waist. How can I end this story in ten words or less?